


Frantic Frottage

by StarkRogers



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alley Sex, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Copyright: This is an original work of fiction. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, making this piece of work legally mine. You may not reproduce or publish this work on any site or in any journal or any other form of media without my permission. </p><p> </p><p>Desperate, quick dirty frottage in an alleyway just out of sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frantic Frottage

He presses me up against the wall of the alley, rough cold brick scraping against tweed and corduroy. I desperately cling to him, trying to pull his body into mine as we sink into the growing shadows of the evening. 

"The inspector is going to hear if you can't keep your voice down, Watson," Holmes chides me as small gasps escape my lips. He is pressing against me below, and I moan once more. I would quip a reply but I can't, so earnest is his kissing that I lose my breath to him for a few moments before I am able to speak.

"Lestrade is busy cataloguing the body, he won't bother us." I say into his wild hair, burying my nose and inhaling his scent, stifling back a moan I so desperately want to set free. He is clinging to my coat, rubbing against me in furious, short strokes as I lock my fingers in his hair. "Oh god Holmes…." I cry softly, and I reach down between us, unbuttoning myself first and then him, taking us both in one hand, the other hand still clinging to his skull, fingers tangled in his hair, pressing his face into my overcoat. He moans deeply into the fabric, smothering the noise from potential ears listening in on where we've gone. 

We thrust frantically against each other, shuddering as the tender undersides of our shafts are pressed together, rubbing and sliding in the growing wetness. Panic courses through me as I hear shoes approaching on gravel, but a voice from farther away calls out (Lestrade, it sounds like), and the feet depart us. I close my eyes and lean my head against the cool brick in relief, feeling the weight of Holmes as he clings even more desperately to my coat, shuddering each time he thrusts, coming close and closer to release in the cold winter air, bitting down in my scarf to stifle the increasingly high-pitched moans and cries emitting from his throat. 

His thrusts grow insistent and sharp, and then with synchronized quick exhalations he comes, involuntarily releasing his teeth's grip on my scarf, choking on the cries he cannot make for the sake of privacy. He shudders as I continue stroking, coming even as the warmth of his release is still sliding down between my hand, our sticky releases mixing together in milky heat. We breathe heavily for a few moments before cleaning ourselves up and staggering out of the alleyway. Lestrade is just heading our way, calling to Holmes about some detail or other. I follow as always.


End file.
